To Friend-Tree of Counted Days Poem by Macgregor Card

A hurricane is stripping the woods
A key will be my dwelling
The feint of a fire the heart confirms
And the air whose capture seized it
—René Char, "Effacement du peuplier"

I am climbing a tree
too high for words
whose leaves are as green
as they ought to be
the only shade at night
that meets me is my own
Johnny Élan forever
I hate to confess
sometimes I feel
volunteered upon
by a formal quality of sky
cowed trust
in movement and volition
put to love
propensity itself to feel
a little black mandate
yes, for consent
and resignation

white cloud
black cloud
white goose
deaf goose

I wish I was not
on a burning tree
but a tree that was
really on fire
though the emphasis
is my own
it is anyone's place
to be here, the view
I can only imagine
is probably astounding
if seen in generous light
though consolation
is that debt of love knows
infinite regress
I thought was said
that debt of love
knows infinite egress
and so the pines
are bright
because they are all
around me

white cloud
black wood
white cliff
black wreath

Johnny Élan was here
his knife as fast
as it ought to be
the tree he seized
grew high
the tree I sing
you know that way
it is the shade
that meets you
is your own
like any other feeling
spent apart
from green hard home
below red star
to shrill formality
one thing
I do not lack the sense in
to expire

How long is the comedy
about me?

How far to the barrier
I know?

What is there to sing
but a round?

What is there to seize
but a while?

What is there to counter
but fall?